


Tabule Rasa (Blank Slate)

by malchanceux



Category: Danny Phantom, Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Character Death, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Haunting, Major Character Undeath, Memory Loss, Psychological Trauma, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-02-15 19:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13037733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: There are consequences for all actions taken, all choices made. Daniel Fenton took the path of the hero, his family chose to hold on to old biases and obsessions.These are the consequences of their actions.//////////The Teen Titan's find themselves thrust into the aftermath of a tragedy, neck deep in the tangles of the dark web that is Amity Park's past. There is a ghost haunting them, reaching out for any who would hear it. For any that would help it.Though our Jump City superheroes will rally to the call, the fallout may be too much for even the Titan's to handle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy balls I've been working on this for so long. I've decided to just start posting it. I have quite a bit written, but updates will be excruciatingly slow. This is my writers block story, where I go when nothing else that I prioritize is getting done.
> 
> Enjoy and God speed.

_What happens to a ghost when it dies?_

“Oh my god Danny, hold on. Just hold on! Everything’s going to be okay.”

_Where do the dead lay to rest?_

“Jesus Christ, Jack, where’s the ambulance!”

_Can you kill something that has already transcended the world of the living?_

“I didn’t know, sweetie, I didn’t know it was _you._ Please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Danny’s thought about those questions a lot since the lab accident when he was fifteen. To think four years had passed since then—

“Ma’am, we need you to give us space. Can you tell us what happened?”

Nights on end the uncertainty of his undeath haunted Danny. During the day he shrugged it off with biting wit and sarcasm, feigning bravado in the face of trauma. But in the shadows of evening, his mind raced with the implications that being a living ghost created. At first it was all too much to comprehend, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“ _There’s so much blood.”_

_“Ma’am, I need you to move!”_

With age and experience came understanding. What happens to a ghost when it dies? No specter knows for certain, just as the living before them stumble through their fragile lives clueless to their ‘final destination’. The death of the dead could be endless nothingness, could be the beginning of a new life reincarnated; could be the acceptance through some deity’s _pearly gates_ . Without experiencing the afterlife’s _afterlife_ first hand, the true answer was up in the air for anyone to speculate.

 _“Oh Jack, what have we_ done _?”_

And what of the killing of ghosts—can you be considered a murderer for something that is already dead? _Can_ you kill them--these spectres--or would one’s passing simply be the transcendence into another state of being?

_“There’s no pulse, we’re losing him!”_

Philosophically you could argue in circles that you can’t kill something that’s already beyond the plain of the living. But what it came down to, Danny decided, is the loss of life--the change in the state of being. Whether it be a human never touched by the cold hand of death, or an undead who, even without an unbroken bond to the physical world, still went on _being._ Ghost or human, murder ended the same: with the loss of existence the way they were before. Human to ghost, and ghost to… well. Something, probably.

The undeads time could run out just as easily as those within the first tier of life. Danny, stuck between hot pumping blood and the chilled grip of the afterlife, could die just as easily as any other being, human or otherwise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On May 22nd, 2009, at precisely 1:03am, he did.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now some plot.

“Foolish Titans! You are but too little too late. For months I have been colluding and plotting, and now I, Control Freak, shall rule Jump City with an iron fist!” the rotund redhead declared, standing triumphantly in the town square, surrounded by his army of brainwashed citizens.

“I guess too much T.V. really does rot your brain,” Raven deadpanned, eyeing Control Freak’s hoard. Most were not dressed to be out, garbed in pajamas, grungy houseware, or just their undergarments. Lounging clothes; zombified couch potatoes. The villain had created special “commercials” to hypnotize viewers into doing his bidding. Considering it was a Sunday afternoon that meant Control Freak had quite the extensive militia.

Though as impressive as the numbers were, that was about the only thing _‘impressive’_ about Freak’s army. Which was to be expected considering the demographic he was aiming for. As it was, there were 100 or so people in the square, mostly gangly youth or pudgy middle-aged men and women, obviously in no shape to put up any kind of a real fight.

Starfire uncharged her starbolts, staring out at the bedraggled mass in concern. “I do not think Control Freak thought this plan through.”

“Yeah, this is less intimidating than when he tried to defeat us with evil, flying videocassette tapes,” Beast Boy quipped, “At least _they_ had laser beam eyes.”

“Man, we’re missing the Walking Dead marathon for _this?”_

Robin sighed, frustrated by the joke of an emergency call, “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can get back home. Titans, Go!”

In the matter of minutes the fight was over. A distraction in the form of a raging, green elephant and a well-placed bird-a-rang ended the ‘battle’ swiftly, while Cyborg, Raven, and Starfire did their best to make sure the civilians didn’t harm themselves by trying to join the fight. Once those hypnotized were corralled and accounted for, the Titans left the proper authorities to deal with the rest.

“That whole ordeal took us 30 minutes,” Cyborg complained, walking toward the car. “We probably missed the part where Lori finally dies. Man, what’s even the point anymore?”

“Sorry guys, but the police didn’t want to take a chance. It’s better if they let us deal with the ones like Control Freak anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Oh!” Starfire exclaimed, pointing up at a brightly decorated billboard, “’ _The Trading Post: used odds and rare ends. Come see our boutiques this weekend. Clothes, furniture, books, food, live music, games, and more’._ ”

“Oh yeah, I heard that was going on just outside of town,” said Beast Boy, “It’s this big traveling caravan. They sell a lot of handmade and secondhand stuff.”

“How exciting!” Starfire beamed, “Can we go? Please Robin?”

“Uh, well, actually I was hoping to go over some old case files,” a slip in the Tameranian’s bright smile; emerald eyes dimmed. A quick war between the butterflies the alien always inspired inside Robin's chest fighting with the ever present obsession with investigative work. The butterflies almost always won. This time was no exception.

“... But I guess it couldn’t hurt to put it off for a couple more hours.”

“Oh, thank you friend Robin!”

“Count me in,” Said Beast Boy. “They had me at _‘food’._ ”

Cyborg sighed, “Might as well. I could scavenge for some parts for a project I’m working on—wouldn’t mind saving a few bucks on second hand materials.”

 

 

 

At the edge of Jump City, where skyscrapers turn to suburbs and suburbs to unoccupied spans of grassy fields and rocky outcrops, a bustling market had been opened. What looked like three dozen dusty, sun bleached tents stood proud where just the day before there had been empty plots of dirt and grass.

“Oh, this reminds me of holidays on Tameran!” Starfire proclaimed, flying off excitedly into the crowd of merchants and prospective customers, pulling Robin along by the arm after her.

“We’ll meet you guys here in a hour!” Robin called back to the rest of his teammates, smiling broadly as he was tugged along.

The next hour is a blur of colors and smells and an excited Tameranian. Robin stops at several booths and treats the alien princess to a few of Earth’s modest traditions: churros, face paint, and a stick of fried ice cream. Starfire beams and thanks him profusely for each ‘gift’, and the young Robin cannot help the grin that feels as though it splits his face in half each time.

“Friend Robin, come, look at this!” Starfire gasps, hovering over a display table for a secondhand jewelry stall.

Robin looks over the Tameranian’s shoulder, peering down at a small necklace display. Starfire is pointing very enthusiastically at a dusty, worn locket. It doesn’t look like much to the Titan leader. In fact, it looks like something you find in an old woman’s jewelry chest. The chain is thick and strong, not like the elegant chains young girls favored nowadays. The locket itself was bulbous and heavy looking, more like a pendant. By how worn and old it seemed, Robin wondered if it even opened anymore.

Robin frowned. If he was going to get Starfire a necklace, he would think he’d get her something a little nicer than _this._

The Titan leader turned his gaze up to Starfire’s face, her expression one of wonder. Sometimes he forgot Starfire’s alien origins. What he held in value did not always match the Tameranian culture.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Robin found himself calling out to the hunched, older woman who ran the stall. “Could we take a better look at this locket?”

The old woman eyed the Titan leader and alien princess for a moment, and gave the necklace a hard look of its own.

“Aye,” she said in a gravelly rasp, her accent thick. “If it’ll get that thing out of my hair faster, ya can touch it all ya want.”

“Uh, thanks.”

With a clattering of keys the stall owner opened the glass display case and dropped the locket into Starfire’s eager hands.

“It reminds me of a Tameranian tradition,” the alien princess said. “On my planet, once a year, close friends and family will gift one another with trinkets or food or flowers. Necklaces were very popular before I left home.”

 _Like Valentine’s Day,_ Robin thought, his cheeks reddening.

“We’ll take it,” Robin said, before he could think better of it.

“Really?” the old woman asked, brow furrowed. “Whatever makes ya happy. Twenty-five bucks.”

“Done,” Robin said, fishing out his wallet.

“Oh, thank you friend, Robin!” Starfire exclaimed. She clipped the locket around her neck before pulling the Titan leader close for a kiss on the cheek and a fierce hug. Grinning like an idiot, Robin couldn’t help but feel like that was the best $25 dollars he’d spent in his life.

 

 

 

When they finally all regroup the sun is setting and the tents have started to be packed away.

“So much for a hour,” Raven grumbles. It is all in good humor; a stall tucked into the back had been selling oddities that ranged from old books to homemade ‘charms’ that were completely fake but interesting all the same. The empath had spent the entire time engrossed.

“Sorry about that guys,” Robin said sheepishly, a blush heating his cheeks. “We got a little carried away.”

Cyborg wrapped a playful arm around the Titan leaders shoulder.

“I can see that!” The cybertronic teen pointed overtly at Starfire’s neck. “What do we have here?”

“Ooohhhh,” Beastboy crowded the alien princess, eyes locked onto the pendant around her neck. “What’s the occasion, huh?”

Infuriatingly, the green boy waggled his eyebrows at the Titan leader.

“It’s--nothing. Just. Okay, let’s go guys,” heat intensified, and Robin knew it would be impossible for the others to not notice now. “We’ve been playing hooky long enough. Time to get back to wok.”

“Yeah, right,” Raven followed after the young Robin, smirk sharp as a tac. “Work. Of course.”

The blush remained the entire ride home.

 

 

 

Raven wakes with a start. For a moment her heart beats staccato in her chest, but in the moonlight she can make out the familiar silhouettes of her room and calms. She takes a deep breath and lets the stillness of the room settle her racing heart.

Now to figure out what disturbed her sleep.

The only sound she can hear are the muted _tick’s_ of her alarm clock, and Raven does not see nor feel another person in her room. She closes her eyes and broadens her senses, lets her mind wander the hallways of Titan’s Tower…

Still nothing.

“Maybe it was just a dream?” the empath mumbles to herself. But even as Raven says it she knows it not to be true. She can still feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins; can still feel the remnants of a palpitating heart.

Raven slowly climbs out of bed and gets dressed. She’s been a Titan for too long to not at least give the perimeter a cursory check.

When the door slides open she peers down the hall. A few rooms down Robin is still sleeping, and a floor above Beast Boy is doing much the same. She could go to them, neither would question her nor complain about the hour.

Raven chooses to go alone, instead. She can just as easily sound the alarm if things go south, rather than needlessly rouse her teammates.

Slowly, the empath combs the upper levels of the tower. The rec room, gym, storage rooms, stairways, and Cyborg’s work shop all come up clean. No hair or hide or essence to be found. Everything is quiet and unoccupied as it should be.

Still, something nags at the fringes of Raven’s mental nets. She can’t shake the feeling that there is something for her to find.

After an hour of fruitless investigating, the empath throws in the towel and returns to bed. There are 20 agonizing minutes of tossing and turning, of her mind racing and searching the tower still as she tries to lay herself to rest.

 _I know you’re here,_ she thinks deliriously at the precipice of sleep. She fades into unconsciousness before she can feel the weak mental _nudge_ in response.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic actually won't be focused on the Robin/Starfire romance, it's just going to kind of be there.
> 
> (as per cannon amirite?)


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, the Titan’s are roused by their emergency alarm.

Raven doesn’t mention her abrupt awakening just hours before. She simply stands at a tired, ready attention, waiting to get the run down from their _fearless leader_.

No need to worry her friends when nothing had been found.

“There’s a riot at Crystal Prison,” Robin said, in lieu of a _good morning._

“And we’re up because?” Beast Boy whined.

“Not that unusual,” Cyborg said, wiping sleep from his eye. “They _are_ our neighbors.”

“Don’t usually wake us up at the crack of dawn for help.”

“Things are getting out of control fast—some convicts have already breached the perimeter,” Robin explained, hands moving fast over the main consoles keyboard.

Cyborg groused, pinching the bridge of his nose: “Don’t they take the overflow for Jump’s prison?”

“Exactly. Right now they have several of Jump’s top priority criminals behind their bars. No one particularly dangerous has escaped yet, but the crowd is quickly making their way toward the high security sector. We know who’s in there, and for any of them to get out would be a big problem. For Crystal City _and_ for Jump.”

“I swear if this is Control Freak I will turn into a T-Rex and put my vegetarianism on _hold.”_

The rest of the team silently, tiredly agrees.

“Control Freak or not, we need to bring our A-game and get this under wraps quick. Titans, move out!”

 

 

 

 

The prison riot takes about two hours to resolve. The high security sector is never breached, and no one, not Plasmius, Cinderblock, or Doctor Light, even get a glimmer of hope for escape. With the more elite villains still stuck in their cells, the common rabble are easy enough to subdue. In the end, there are a few injured guards and over two dozen injured convicts. Nothing lethal; all capable of being dealt with at the prison infirmary with little fuss. Order is swiftly made as the power shifts back into the law’s hands.

A job well-done.

_(Of course,  the work of a Robin was never done, and the leader of the Titans had already gone over several possible theories to why the escape had been planned in the first place, and who was actually behind it.)_

“The warden stated some of the lower profile convicts did manage to get away in the confusion, but they’re not calling for our assistance. I requested he send the files for every escaped convict for review, but there’s no real urgency,” Robin said as the team regrouped in the prisons main lobby. “At this point, the breakout is now a local authority issue.”

“Awesome! Less work for me!” Beast Boy cheered. “Who wants pizza?”

“Uhg, at eleven in the morning?” Raven groused.

“Never too early for pizza,” Cyborg said, his tone taking a serious lilt. “Dude, count me in!”

“I too could go for a slice.”

Robin hummed in agreement. The work of a Robin was never done, but the difference between a Robin and a Bat was that birds took breaks. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

Raven sighed, admitting defeat. “Fine.”

 

 

 

 

“Hey Star, your necklace is looking pretty spiffy,” Cyborg said around a mouth full of Meat Lovers.

“Thank you, friend Robin let me borrow polish,” the Tameranian fingered her new piece of jewelry, looking like a thousand bucks in comparison to when she first showed the group at the Trading Post. “Though I still cannot get it to open.”

“Really, with _your_ strength?” Beast Boy asked incredulously. “Maybe that old lady was wrong and there’s nothing to open after all.”

“But it feels so light, like it is hollow.”

Cyborg eyed the necklace with a raised brow. “And you still can’t get it to budge? Huh. If you want, we could try some of my tools at the Tower. Just drop by my workshop when you’re not busy and we’ll see what science can do.”

“Dude, what do you think ‘science’ can do that super strength couldn’t?”

“Hey now, watch yourself, B.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Well just don’t. My tech is a little more sophisticated than ‘Hulk smash’.”

“Hulk smash?” Starfire questioned.

“Er, it’s a comic book reference. Just means brute strength.”

“And what about ‘Hulk smash’ is bad?”

“What? No, I mean. Uhhh. That’s not what I meant, Star. I just think maybe putting a little elbow grease and pliers to your necklace might help.”

“Or break it.”

“Thank you for the support, Raven.”

“Anytime.”

 

 

 

 

That evening, the warden of Crystal Prison sends the requested files to the Titans.

Robin does not look at them. The mission had seemed simple, clean. A prison break amongst the dozens before it. No one of real import had escaped, and none in the high security sector had boasted responsibility as was per their norm. He decides to put them aside for another day. He has been tracking a different villain the last few nights.

_Slade._

The two-toned mask had been monopolizing Robin’s down time for the last several days. He was back in town and planning something. The grass root contacts the Titan leader had within the underground reported as much, anyway.

Robin planned to be ready when his arch nemesis resurfaced, whenever that may be.

He pushed the minela files from the warden to the corner of his cluttered desk. He’d review them at another time for archiving. It wouldn’t hurt to put off for just a while longer.

 

 

 

 

Robin doesn’t notice then, doesn’t hear the whispered rustling of paper falling.

One of the folders slips off his desk and scatters into the trash bin.

A three by four picture stares up at the harsh light of Robin’s office. A grizzled expression had glared at the camera at the time of the photo, murky blue irises dulled by alcohol. Dark bruises marked the days without sleep beneath the man's eyes, his salt and pepper hair in absolute disearay.

His charges were numerous and sporadic, ranging from public intoxication to illegal experimentation.

The name of the man sat in twelve point font, dull and black and stark, stamped onto the folders tab with a label maker.

_“Jack Fenton”._

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been posting a chapter a day up to this point, but we're quickly catching up to all I had pre-written. Updates will be sporadic after that.

 

 

 

 

Raven knows she is not awake. She remembers the evening routine: brushing teeth, various _good night’s,_ changing clothes, a hefty tome for settling down; she even remembers falling asleep. Now the empath stands in front of a modest suburban home. The house is quaint, one story—there are signs a family lives here. The grass is patchy, the yard strewn with several children’s toys: a trike here, a water gun there, a dirty Barbie doll sitting by the worn _welcome_ mat.

The sky is a hazy golden orange; the clouds a disconcerting gray blur racing overhead.

Raven knows she is not dreaming.

A faint echo of children’s laughter draws the empath slowly towards the front steps. The old wood creaks beneath her feet as she cautiously nears the front door. Something feels wrong, off—a nervous ache coils in Raven’s chest as she reaches for the knob.

The door opens on its own before Raven can so much as touch it, revealing an empty black abyss.

“Hello?” Raven calls. The faint sounds of kids at play is all that answers her.

“Is anyone there?” she tries again. A shiver runs down her spine as the temperature seems to suddenly drop, her next breath disconcertingly visible. In a blink the empty black becomes occupied by a single, ragged teddy bear.

With its one dark button eye it peers at her, and Raven knows it can _see._ She shivers but this time not from the cold. The child’s toy looks _well-loved—_ colors worn and with obvious signs of re-stitching. Right eye missing, body a patchwork of the different materials used to fix rips over the years; one ear looks to have been gnawed on.

 _“His name is Daniel,”_ A little girl whispers so close the empath can feel hot breath lick at her nape.

With a gasp, Raven wakes.

 

 

 

 

Jack Fenton had laid wasting in Crystal City’s correctional facility for five years. He had not spoken since a judge determined his guilt and sentenced him to thirty years in prison. For all intent and purposes, for all his lawyer had cared, that was a life sentence.

For Jack Fenton, he hadn't been alive since he murdered his son. What was _life_ behind bars, when every breath he took was stale and the world around him was ash?

Jack’s days run together like sloppy water colors. He wakes, uses the communal facility in his cell, eats the slop they assure him is food, and returns to his cell, staring aimlessly at the white walls, waiting for the second and final meal of the day. His time in prison is only punctuated by the occasional fight, quick little things that end with him in isolation and the other party in the infirmary.

Kid killers got poor reception in Crystal Correctional amongst the other inmates. Sometimes Jack let them get a few swings in, to feel the pain; it's what he deserved, after all.

Jack is fine, like this, in his misery; his mind wasting away with every passing, tiring day. He was content to die in his cell, with no comforts or family, the concrete walls of his cell encompassing his entire world. It was everything he deserved.

Then one day he has a dream.

All around him is darkness, an echoing, _empty_ void. This, for Jack, is not unusual, but what happens next _is._

Tendrils of smoke slither up his legs, green and thick and cold. It rises until it covers him, a smothering screen of bile scented mist, running down his throat and choking his lungs. Amongst the unpleasantness, the feeling of smokers lung developing in a few precious seconds, is a feeling of… _familiarity._

Jack doesn’t fight it. Something inside tells him not to.

As quickly as the green smoke had overwhelmed him, it begins to pull back. It doesn't disappear, but clears his airways so he can breathe and disperses enough so he can see again.

A vortex has opened just in front of him, looking so much like the dreadful portal he and his lovely-Madeline-precious-sweetheart had created many, many years ago. His knee jerk is to go into a rage, to screw his eyes shut and force himself awake--to turn his aggression onto his cellmate--a murderer in his own right who had _earned_ his lot in life, the pain in which Jack wished to inflict.

Something stops him, however. That same feeling of familiarity. It was more potent, now; more defined. He hadn’t felt this in years, not since the incident, not since the death of his little boy.

It was the feeling of _coming home_.

As tears slipped unobstructed down Jack’s cheeks, the portal swirled and pulsed, images appearing like a mirage.

There's a sad little girl, clutching a teddy bear like a security blanket.

There's a strange, orange-tinted teen, long slender neck showcasing a bulky, old locket.

There's a grungy and forgotten basement, rat infested and mildew covered, where a bloody trash bag resides, tucked away in a corner.

This dream, this _vision,_ disturbs Jack. It disturbs him in a way nothing has in years, since before his incarceration. When there had still been hope for him and his Maddie-dear-love-O’mine.

“Danny,” Jack’s voice is hoarse from years of disuse. To speak hurts, lights his throat on fire. _“My son.”_

These visions are not of his own making, Jack knows. As his mind has slipped and marinated, he had never lost sight if what was real. Wouldn’t allow himself the mercy. He knew-- _he knew_ \--the phantoms that often visited him, taunted him, were not real. But this dream, as it has him jolting from his bed, soaked in a cold sweat, Jack _knew_ what he had been shown was real. Tangible.

It was light at the end of a pitch tunnel. Not for him, but for his boy. To return a life that had been _stolen_ from Danny. To right the wrongs of the mother and the father.

A child should not be dammed for the mistakes of his progenitors.

The years of languishing has made the guards who watch him soft; but Jack’s mind, though lost, is still as sharp as ever. That evening he decides he must _go,_ must leave his 6' by 8' coffin and finish what he and Maddie-darling-wife-and-mother had started.

That morning he escapes, sets the whole west wing free with him to cause a distraction. The superheroes are unexpected, but in the chaos he escapes all the same.

It was time to make things right.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

Raven does the best she can to compartmentalize. Unfortunately, there isn’t much she can do about the bags under her eyes, and reigning in her ever mercurial temper becomes harder with every passing night. 

For what feels like an eternity she has been visiting the  _ quaint  _ little house with the fire-orange sky and charcoal grey clouds.

“You okay, Raven?” Robin asks, tone hushed so as to not draw the attention of the others. He has always been considerate like that, and usually the empath would find it endearing. Now she found his concern agitating. “You look pale. More so than usual.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just not getting a lot of sleep is all.”

“Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she bite. “It’s just weird dreams.”

The Titan leader drops the conversation, does not call her on her obvious lie. Raven knows, however, that Robin was not one to let go--he was like a dog with a bone. There would be no dropping the matter, not entirely.

She wouldn't admit it, but in this instance, Raven found his tenacity comforting.

 

 

 

 

A spike in crime hits Jump City.

Robberies are on the rise, from anything like convenience stores to medical facilities being targeted. Food, clothes, beakers, chemicals, alcohol. You name it, the perps were grabbing it. There was no rhyme or reason, no evidence left behind. No discernable pattern to when and who they hit.

A toy store is the latest victim. Robin stands inside the ransacked Toys-R-Us and growls in utter frustration, throwing his arms up before storming out. The other Titans could sympathize, none of them could make hide nor hair of what the motivation was, or even begin a profile or the perp or perpetrators.

They leave the crime scene behind, a mix of discouraged and enraged. The only silver lining was that, as of yet, no one had been hurt.

 

 

 

 

Raven tries to find the house that haunts her dreams.

_ (His name is Daniel.) _

When the team is distracted, when the villains are quiet, she escapes to one of the lower level offices. She may not be Robin, trained by _The_ _Detective_ himself, but her hands glide over the keyboard with confidence. There’s not much to go on, but each vision appears to reveal something new, another clue.

The little girl sometimes spoke broken french to her sad little teddy bear.

_ (Tu n'es pas cassé.) _

There was an accent to her speech, one discernible when she spoke English. Of the rare times the little girl speaks at all.

_ (Won’t you help him? He’s so lost and tired.) _

It becomes a routine. A dream will rouse her, she checks the tower’s perimeter, and then when nothing is found, she settles at a computer to continue her search, adding something new to the sparse list of hints.

_ Southern accent. _

_ Broken French. _

_ A house on a corner street, with rusted metal numbers reading ‘153’ and the fourth illegible. _

Raven wonders, despondent, if she’ll ever get more than four hours of sleep again.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas ya'll. <3

 

 

 

 

When Vlad had heard the news, had seen what had happened to the valiant Phantom of Amity Park, he did not take it well.

_ “No,”  _ he hisses at the television screen, fingers digging into the leather of his arm chair. There is a birds-eye-view from a helicopter, a jerky clip on an endless loop, of the exact moment the downed ghost reverts back to his human form.

Of the exact moment the world realized their mistake.

Photos are tossed over the screen with a half-hearted disclaimer. Danny lay lifeless, dirted from the tumble he took, landing rough on some poor bastards front lawn. His chest, though, his chest is covered in ectoplasm. His insides  _ outside  _ his suit-- _ his flesh.  _ The killing blow.

Vlad Master’s sits in his chair, face blank, staring at the stark story description scrolling the bottom of the screen.

_ “Phantom identity revealed; killed in chase.” _

_ He can’t be dead,  _ is the next cogent thought the man has. For all their rivalry, through all their battles, Daniel had always prevailed--if not worse for wear. He was strong, Vlad knew this from experience, how could mere  _ ghost hunters  _ do this?

How could  _ Maddie  _ and  _ Jack  _ do this?

_ You both knew the risks,  _ Vlad’s mind accuses.  _ Playing the hero in a town full of fearful spiritualist, where his own family wanted him off the streets. It was only a matter of time.  _

Vlad had never said anything. He always assumed Daniel had accessed the risks and could not be swayed; he  _ was  _ stubborn afterall. To tell him to be careful was like throwing a match on gasoline.

Guilt grips his heart in a vice all the same.

Vlad stands from his chair, grabbing the lamp next to him and lodging it into the television. Glass shatters, sparks fly.

It does little to temper the heat of the man's fury.

“How could this  _ happen? _ ” He yells, echoing about his empty mansion.”Those  _ idiots.  _ Those  _ imbeciles.  _ They have murdered their  _ son.” _

Vlad falls to his knees, angry tears streaming down his face.

_ “They have murdered  _ my  _ son!” _

And there it was; the Freudian Slip. 

Vlad does not correct himself; not outloud, not in his thoughts. A creeping vine of desolation cripples the man's will to move, he stays on the floor, sobbing like a child. Daniel Fenton was and always would be the closest thing to a family he would have.

Would have had. Never again. Stolen from him by Daniel’s oblivious biological parents.

_ Jack… _

It was  _ his  _ fault. His pathetic obsession with things he barely understood. The fat buffoon had dabbled with spastic leaps of intuition in a science he could never hope to master. His son and his wife would be the victims of his mistakes.

A mistake that could never be reversed.

_ But it could be avenged,  _ a dark voice called from the back of Vlad’s mind.

Tears still falling, whispered sobs falling from his lips like forgotten screams, Vlad turns his gaze up, eyes glowing a terrible red.

The murder of Daniel Fenton would  _ not  _ go  _ unpunished. _

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

 

The pendant is bulbous, thick—there is most definitely something within it. A picture, a small trinket? Something, Raven knows, and that something is not natural. It is sentient. It is what has been tormenting her sleep the last few weeks.

It is calling out to her, though she cannot fully understand what it is saying.

As an empath Raven is not used to hitting such inscrutable walls. Some nights, when she walks the nightmare visions the necklace creates, she can feel the frays of emotion—can sense the echoes of intent. But nothing ever solid, nothing she can grab ahold of and _read_.

Hostile or benevolent, all Raven knows is that it is calling out for someone to hear it, and _she_ is the unlucky vessel for its message. Most likely it has only latched onto her because none of the other Titans are able to sense it, but now she almost wishes that she too was ignorant to the otherworldly.

A sound night’s sleep is all she wants.

Raven considers going to the others and telling them about whatever is lurking within Starfire’s newest purchase, but she has no proof other than what she feels and what she sees in visions. The empath wants something tangible to bring to them, something they too can see before she tells them an entity lives within the odd silver pendant.

It sounds crazy even to her, when put like that. And Raven’s biggest fear is her friends brushing her off. That they won’t believe her.

That the connection she feels with them—the trust—is only one-sided.

 

 

 

 

The funeral for Daniel Fenton is crowded.

The citizens of Amity Park, those who had looked upon the black and silver clad vigilante with eyes filled with something other than disdain, gathered within the bowels of the town's largest church. Their eyes glistened with all the awestruck horror one would expect when seeing the unmoving figure of their small town superhero.

Of the mutilated body of a nineteen year old boy.

There is an open casket. The mortician had done his best to make the body presentable, but there is a distinct _dip_ in the corpses chest if you looked _just right_ at the pressed, black suit the boy had been dressed in. Where a plasma ray had shot right through the Phantom’s ribcage. Where the skin and bone and flesh had been blown away, blood and ectoplasm mixing in a strange red and green horror show.

The video of Daniel Fenton’s death had been played on nonstop loop on every major news station for nearly 24 hours before the mayor called for the media to show some _dignity_ for the grieving family and friends. For the dead boy who had only the best intentions.

By then everyone has seen it. By then it was circulating the internet. By then it was viral and there was no escaping the graphic final moments of the boy ghost playing superhero.

Outside the over crowded church, several news vans and ammature bloggers stand outside, recording live. Vultures waiting for their next meal; the rotting flesh topped with a sad story pushing ratings through the roof. Pushing ethics to the curb. Smothering moral hesitations.

It is noted by several outlets that the mother and father--the killers, murderers, the _hunters--_ are not in attendance.

The sister and closest friends refuse to comment.

A new clip of the casket being carried to the hearse becomes the new obsession for Amity Park; for the world watching the funeral of a super. On the sleek, wood surface, someone had laid a black and silver hazmat--the same kind used by the Fenton’s, the same style Daniel Fenton had worn while doing wonderous, heroic deeds. It is symbolic; a honor adorning the simple casket arranged by the mayor to show solidarity and respect to a boy who had done so much for Amity in his short life.

Amazon starts selling an off brand knock off of the costume before the casket is completely buried, in adult _and_ kid sizes. Walmart, Target, and other large contenders joining suit. It’s a controversy that carries on for too long and an ethics conversation that should not need to be had. Commercialized tragedy.

The world forgets within months. The news stations move on to more current prospects.

Amity Park is left to bear the heavy weight that is the absence of their otherworldly vigilante, a sadness born by those who had known Daniel Fenton fondly in his life and undeath. Now, they are left with the unforgiving cold of a headstone. Nothing save a name is carved into its marble flesh. The family, it’s rumored, could not bear nonsensical platitudes demeaning all Daniel Fenton had meant in life.

At night the skies remain stubbornly empty. No ghost-boy patrolling for petty criminals or malevolent spirits. No adrenaline inducing chases amongst the clouds. An oppressive weight sits upon the shoulders of Amity Park.

A wound that would never truly heal.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

 

The thing about secrets was that they were bound to come out eventually. Willingly, by mistake, or sometimes by happenstance. It was hard to keep things buried, especially when you lived the life of a superhero. 

To Raven’s defense, it could have stayed buried for a good while longer, until she grew the courage to say something herself even, if it weren't for Johnny Rancid. 

The tattooed teen had managed to get his hands on a suped up Harley. Its wheels bore spikes the size of Raven’s arm, leaving trails of cracked and broken asphalt in its wake. Its exhaust was a noxious fume, flames jumping out whenever the engine was revved. Its biggest weapon was its durability. The villain rode his bike like a bumper car, smashing other vehicles off the road with just a jerk of the handle bars. 

He had to be stopped, and the Titan’s were on the job. 

In retrospect they hadn't been prepared. At his name,  _ Johnny Rancid _ , their guards were down. He had never been much more than a nuisance before. So his bike had some tech, they thought nothing of it. He was still the dense, overcompensating alpha male they had all come to loathe.

It is their underestimation of the enemy that leads to an injury. Starfire is shot down from the sky, a laser beam mounted in the bikes headlight. She hits the pavement hard.

_ “Starfire!”  _ Robin yelled, but it was too late, they could all see it. The alien princess struggled to her hands and knees, all the while Rancid revved his bike, aiming for the downed Titan.

None of them would make it in time.

The Harley takes off, and Raven will never be able to get the shrill growl of the engine, or the sound of the asphalt being torn to shreds beneath the wheels out of her head. What would it sound like when it hit Starfire?

There’s a scream, a crash, and the sound of flesh skidding across the blacktop.

A green force field surrounds the Tameranian, a dome encompassing her completely. Starfire sits, legs drawn to her chest and arms out to protect herself, eyes screwed shut in anticipation.

Rancid and his bike lay crashed off to the side, the front of the Harley caved in--the bikes bulk and speed versus the shields density and strength. The force field had obviously won.

_ “Christ,”  _ Robin weezed. He looked like he was about ready to be sick. He collected himself quickly. “Johnny Rancid, you’re under arrest.”

The Titan leader moved with dark purpose, cuffed the villain, cinching his wrists even though the tattooed teen was obviously unconscious from the crash.

No one complained of the treatment.

“What?” Starfire let her arms drop, looking about herself in wonder. 

“Dude, I didn’t know you could do that!” Beast Boy exclaimed.

“I… I cannot. This is not  _ me _ .”

“What do you mean?” Cyborg approached the shield, finger tentatively poking the opaque, green surface. It seemed alive almost, with how its surface pulsed like waves. “If this isn’t you, then  _ who?” _

“Star, your neck!” Robin approached now, eyes locked on the jewelry he had purchased the alien not weeks ago.

Their eyes were drawn down. The bulky locket floated above the alien’s chest, hovering as though gravity had ceased to exist.

“Whoa, dude,” Beastboy murmured in awe. “That’s crazy.”

The force field flickered once, twice, before disappearing entirely, necklace falling flush to Starfire’s chest.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched that just happened,” Cyborg started. “But what the  _ hell  _ just happened?”

“Magic?” Starfire guessed.

“No,” Raven said, hood drawn over her eyes. “Not magic. A spirit.”

“You sensed a spirit just now?” Starfire asked, holding the locket in both hands, eyeing it in wonder.

Robin eyed the empath with a critical expression. “No, not just now. You knew already. That something was up with that locket.”

Raven simply bowed her head. Trained by  _ The Detetive,  _ indeed.

“I do not understand, if you knew this necklace was special, why did you not say anything?”

“Yeah, dude, why not tell us?”

Robin interrupted. “You thought we wouldn’t believe you.”

Raven moved to argue the point, but snapped her mouth shut and thought better of it. She could not look her teammates in the eyes; she simply pursed her lips and stared at the downed Johnny Rancid.

“Hate to break up the pow wow, but now really isn’t the time guys,” Said Cyborg. He pitch his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing at the oncoming police vehicles and ambulances. “Clean up crew is here.”

Robin nodded in a terse agreement.

“We’re not done,” the boy wonder said, voice grave, cape trailing behind him as he hefted Johnny Rancid toward the oncoming authorities. 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

 

 

 

One cannot begin to describe what it's like to out live your child. It was unnatural, by all accounts, for your progeny to meet the ground before you. No parent should have to bury their son. Retire with an empty nest, void of a warm body they gave life to.

Regardless, around the globe this travesty happened to many. Children got sick, children got hurt; sometimes they didn't get better. There were support groups, programs, medicine to help the surviving family move on.

There were no such coping mechanisms for those that killed their own children.

Once the hysterics have subsided, Maddie becomes stagnant. She cannot feel, or at the very least cannot discern what she is feeling. The color drains from the world, from her life. Noise fades in and out; intermittent like the awareness of her surroundings.

There are days at a time Maddie cannot recall. Jack brings her to doctors at Jazz’s insistence, concerned for her health. The doctors tell them it's all in Maddie’s head.

That makes her laugh--laugh so hard it turns to tears.

 _“There's nothing in my head,”_ she wants to say. _“Nothing in my head, my heart; my soul.”_

After several visits Maddie tells Jack and Jazz no more. Maddie wasn't sick, she tells them. Maddie was dead. She died the moment she pulled the trigger on her son. It was out of their hands, or the hands of the doctors; you can’t cure death.

That makes Maddie laugh some more.

_You can't cure death._

She laughs and laughs and laughs, visions of Danny's smiling face at the fringes of her peripheral. His own hearty laughter a whisper in her ears. This time the doctors come to her. They pack Maddie up nice and tight and send her to a special hospital. A psych ward. A prison within a prison within a prison within a--

The medication is bitter. It goes down slow with how thick her mouth feels.

 _“Dry mouth is a minor symptom,”_ they tell her.

All she can think to reply is _“When did I get here?”_

Where did Jack go? Where was Jazzy?

Why couldn't she remember?

 _“Just take your medicine, Madeline,”_ a man in an orange and black jumper tells her. _“Take your medicine and feel better.”_

This time Maddie doesn't laugh. She blames the medicine for that. Instead she stays locked inside herself, a dark amusement clawing at her guts.

_You can't cure death._

  
  


 

 

 

 

_You can't cure death._

  
  


 

 

 

 

_You_

  
  


 

 

 

 

_Cant_

  
  


 

 

 

 

_Cure_

  
  


 

 

 

 

_Death._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Or could you?_

 

 

 

 

 

Vlad Masters visits Amity Park Rehabilitation Center only once. He had thought, with a knot of dread in the pit of his stomach, that seeing Maddie drugged to the gills and raving mad with grief would kill him. That, on top of everything he felt with the loss of Daniel, it would be too much and he too would be locked away and forgotten by the world.

It is Daniel's passing that protects him, he realizes after. A terrible frost had taken his heart, ice so thick it was impenetrable. Maddie had been the one to deal the final blow, after all. She had been unwitting, but with Daniel's heart forever still, Vlad could hardly call ignorance an excuse.

Instead, Vlad takes the frail, rocking figure huddle in the recreational rooms dingy couch with disgust. The Halfa knew what _Jack_ was up to, an unachievable goal and an insult to his sons memory, but at least the buffoon was doing _something._ To see a woman who had been so bright, so ambitious, simply give up on everything--to leave behind Jazz with only _Jack_ to care for her.

Maddie had not even graced Vlad with a call, after it was all said and done. The Halfa only received a formal invitation to the funeral when the children and Jazz had decided to put aside grudges as they thought Daniel would have wanted. With all he and Maddie had been through, college and after their reunion, the ups and downs, the distant past and not so distant memories… Vlad felt he had deserved better. He had expected better of the woman he had spent so many of his adult years enamored with.

In the end, his affections for the son that was never his had grown to over shadow his obsession with Madeline. How mundane, how cliche Vlad had only realized after the boy was gone forever.

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

 

Vlad can admit to a moment of weakness.

In the wake of Daniel’s death, the halfa had seen only red. The world warped around him in his grief, his temper tunneling his vision. Vengeance was what motivated him, what pushed his limbs to move, his heart to beat, his lungs to expand. For several long hours, it is all Vlad Masters is: anger and grief.

When his tears subside he turns, cape billowing behind him as he shoots from his mansion and flies straight for Amity Park. There was only one goal in mind: kill Jack Fenton.

The flight is long, grueling, he never drops his top speed--but he pushed himself all the same, mind never wavering on its goal.

That is, until he arrived at the Fenton residence. 

Invisible, he scouts the house, room by room, but only finds signs of life within the bowels of the home: the workshop below. There, Plasmius finds father and daughter, tearing at each others proverbial throats. The halfa hesitates, hovers, allows the scene to unfold.

“You can’t play God, dad!” Jazz yelled, fists shaking at her sides, tear tracks running down her cheeks. “And you sure as hell can’t talk about this stuff in front of mom. She has enough to deal with.”

“I am  _ not  _ playing God. I am fixing our  _ mistakes.” _

Jack turned his back on the younger Fenton, furiously writing notes in an already bursting journal.

“This isn’t fair to yourself--to mom. This isn’t fair to  _ me,”  _ Jazz sucked in a gulp of air, trying to steady her nerves and her voice. Always trying to be the adult in the family, level headed like her mother. She gestured wildly to a black garbage bag on the table next to Jack. “You brought all this down here--if mom sees… God, Dad, this is so selfish. This is impossible. This is  _ wrong.” _

Jack slammed his fists on the metal table, a growl escaping grit teeth. Plasmius found himself at a loss; the man had never shown such aggression before, in all the years the halfa had known him. 

“How could this be wrong? How could this be any more  _ wrong  _ than what we’ve already done? I am  _ trying  _ to do what’s right for this family.”

“This is messed up,” Jazz wheezed, unable to hold back the sobbing now. She grabbed at the bag, whip fast, and tossed it across the room.

_ “No!”  _ Jack yelled, the bag spilling across the floor. From it came several items, most of which the halfa recognized with no small amount of unease. A worn teddy bear, a thick locket, and a bloody shirt-- _ the  _ bloody shirt--lay strewn about the basement floor.

Jack ran to the items, scooping them up and placing them carefully back in the bag.

“There’s something wrong with you, dad,” Jazz whispered, watching her father with an expression of hopelessness.

“Something wrong with  _ me? _ ” Jack yelled, voice booming. He stood, bag held protectively to his chest, eyes wild. “I am trying to bring your brother  _ back,  _ and you are doing everything in your power to stop me. You say  _ I  _ am selfish--do you not want to see your brother again? Do you not want to see your mother happy again?”

Jazz’s only reply was more tears, body shaking with what could have been fear. Plasmius wondered if Jack had ever raised his voice at her before. He doubted it. 

The girl ran from the room, slim legs carrying her up the stairs as fast as they could, door slamming behind her.

The halfa hovered, for a moment, indecisive. He watched as Jack placed the garbage bag carefully back on the table before wandering off to tinker with a set of beakers and electronics. Now would be the time to strike, now would be the time to cut the man down responsible for taking Daniel Fenton’s life…

Plasmius’s eyes wandered to the open journal on the table, curiosity pulling him away from his target.

_ “I am trying to bring your brother back.” _

The fat buffoon, he couldn’t be serious. Even  _ he  _ wouldn’t dare for such a thing.

The notation within the journal is sloppy, haphazard; disjointed. But Plasmius was smart, he was Jack’s lab partner for years, after all. He could glean what the fat man was getting at, what his tiny brain was trying to produce.

Plasmius could see the sense behind his equations. 

He could see hope for success.

The halfa turned away from the journal and stared at the man he had hated for so,  _ so  _ long. The man who stole his college years, stole his humanity, stole his woman, and  _ murdered his son.  _ The need for vengeance was still there, pumping strong within his frozen veins, but another need had reared its head; stronger than anything he had felt before.

The love of a father that never was, wanting to hold the son he never had. 

If not just  _ one more time. _

“You live today,” Plasmius hissed to himself, shooting from the basement and once more taking to the sky. “You live for as long as you are useful; until you give me back my  _ Daniel.” _

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a Titans chapter, but I got hit with an itch to write more Vlad Masters.
> 
> Promise we'll get some explanation about the locket in the next chapter guys. Sorry for dragging it out, hope it's still holding your attention.


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

“How long have you known?”

Robin's glare is cold, frozen with a quiet temper. He leaned against the wall of Cyborgs garage, arms crossed in disapproval. They made it as far as getting out of the T-car before the Titan leader had decided Raven had escaped interrogation long enough.

“Since the first night,” the empath replies, voice void. She wasn't a criminal, and she wouldn't let Robin intimidate her like one.

“Since the first…” Robin growled in frustration. “A potential threat has been under our roof, around Star’s  _ neck,  _ since that trade fair.”

“It's not a threat,” was all Raven would budge, stubborn in her decision to keep things from the others.

“Sorry man,” Cyborg piped up, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. “I have to agree with Rob in this. How can we know it's not a threat, if you won't even let us knows it's there. I mean, were you ever planning to tell us?”

A deep sigh, Raven collecting herself.

“Yes, of course I was. I was just… I was waiting until I had substantial proof. Something tangible.”

“Is this why you've been so distracted lately? So exhausted?”

A pause. Another sigh. “Yes.”

“We’re a team,” Robin said, voice firm. “We have to share these things with one another. If you're distracted, if you're not at your 100% during a fight, it's a risk to you and everyone else on the team. This was incredibly irresponsible!”

“Friend Raven,” Starfire broke in. Her eyes were glassy with emotion, her expression one of regret. “I apologize.”

Raven flinched back as the alien princess approached, scooping up both of the empaths hands, holding them as though they had joined in prayer.

“You're… sorry?”

“Yes,” Starfire said with certainty. “It must have been hard holding this all in by yourself. We had made you doubt our friendship; our trust. For that, I am sorry.”

Robin looks at first as though he wants to argue, but the ice sharp edges of his expression thaw. Guilt takes over instead.

Raven thinks she misses his temper, in place of his pity. She tears her hands from Starfire’s grasp. 

“I said it isn’t a threat; I was just a little tired,” Raven snaps, defensive and uncomfortable with all the attention. “It has been entirely neutral up to this point. I believe it’s only been active because it could sense a medium near by--I could hear it, so it started talking. That’s all.”

“Is it a ghost?” Beast Boy asked

“Not exactly,” Raven said, tone almost a question. She sighed again, resigned. She had told them she had wanted substantial proof before telling them anything. Raven supposed a protective force field was more than adequate. 

“It’s very faint most times. I can feel it at the fringes of my mind, reaching out but never quite reaching. It feels almost human, at times. And others… I’m not sure if you can understand.”

“Try,” Starfire said. There was no judgement in her tone, only trust in her eyes. Even if Raven’s words were going right over her pretty little head, the alien princess was eager to hear her  _ friend  _ out.

“The connection is strongest when I am asleep. I’m not sure why. It is possible my mental shields are weaker then, or not as offensive. I can see visions. Clues to what the spirit is, what it wants. Like a puzzle with a hundred missing pieces. I think it was human, at one point. But now it feels… broken. There a gaps in its essence, pieces I can feel in each one of you--of every human--except this spectre. It isn’t natural, whatever it is.”

“But it wants something?” Robin prods.

“Yes, it wants something very badly.”

Cyborg chimed in: “Any ideas what?”

“I think,” Raven started, gaze pulled to the necklace around Starfire’s neck. “I think it wants to be whole again.”

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

 

 

 

It was Madeline, in the end, who had started the whole thing. She had pulled the trigger that killed Danny, and she was the first to utter the taboo she and Jack knew they had no right to commit. There was a line, they both knew, between science and what they were doing. Madeline's broken mind did not heed this imaginary barrier between right and wrong. Her intellect and imagination mixed with the agony of losing her boy. Through Madeline's loose theories and Jack’s labor they broke the laws of the natural world.

The laws of the living, and the laws of the dead.

The  _ soul  _ of a human was just energy, Madeline said, one of the last times she’d string so many words into a coherent sentence. Just hours after they shot their boy from the sky. 

What were scientists good at if not harnessing and harvesting energy?

With wide eyes Jack had stared, horrified, then resigned, then a strange excitement gleaned. Something unhinged. Something  _ hopeful.  _

“Our boy,” Jack had whispered, his heart too crumbling under the pressure of guilt and loss.

Madeline had grown quiet, she hugged herself and crumpled to their bedroom floor. She wouldn’t remember their conversation later, she wouldn’t be able to hold onto her memory much at all. If Jack had known this would be the last time his wife would be present in mind and body, perhaps he wouldn’t have rushed off to the lab with such haste, with not so much as a kiss in his wake.

_ Energy, energy, energy! _

They could master it, Jack knew. They had used the very same idea when they invented the portal. They could master energy. They had done it before--what was so different now?

_ What was so different now? _

 

 

 

 

There is a light, a shapeless mass of energy, floating in an infinite abyss. It exists--it  _ is _ \--in a single instance and in an eternity. A shout into the void. Not star dust; ethereal. A fractured being. A fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a whole. Its only driving force: the desire for completeness. 

Images tug the mass along. Memories from a time the energy could hold a form; could hold coherent thoughts and articulate beyond the occasional shimmer or pulsation. It is maddening, to sense a piece of itself and have the barrier of endless emptiness keep your missing parts far from reach. 

But then there is hope. It spills into the eternal nothingness in the form of a gentle trickle. Dark, tacky water a long and seemingly infinite rope,  _ flowing  _ past the mass of light with no definitive intention. The light touches it, a tentative tendril emboldened by curiosity. Nothing had ever existed within the realm of darkness for as long as the light could remember. 

The contact is like a lightning strike. In a single moment a  _ world  _ came into focus, the world of the  _ living.  _ A vague concept the mass can barely recall. And yet, it starved for it. 

The light can only hold its touch for a moment. It sees a dark room, a woman fast asleep, a wall made of glass and a rainy world beyond it. The physical realm. Yes, the mass knew it had existed there once. It could not recall much in any detail. And yet, it  _ knew  _ this is where it's other parts were dragging it. Pulling the light along an invisible parameter, never able to cross over. 

Until now. 

An impression of an arm comes to the being; pale from a life away from the sun, but calloused palms bely hands used to hard labor. This, the light knew, was  _ its  _ arm. Or what was once it's physical manifestation of an arm. The tendril reaches out a second time, the image of the arm at the forefront. It imagines the arm is what touches the dark water, sinking its fingers in and taking a firm grip. With all its might it focuses on the woman in the bed. 

Tethers brush against her mind, weak and unused to the strain. The light snaps back, pushed away from the tacky liquid, exhausted and yet elated. It had touched the woman, her mind. A caress so light the being was not sure she had felt it, but still it had interacted with the physical realm all the same. 

Tired, the mass keeps its tendrils to itself and simply exists near the string of flowing water. Once it's strength returned, it would try again.

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

 

 

 

After the revelations in Cyborg’s garage, Robin had decided they needed to focus their efforts into solving the mystery of Starfire’s locket. The first thing they had learned, though unintentionally, was that it could not be removed. Casually, Starfire had tried to lift the necklace from her neck so that the other Titan’s could have a closer look. The chain went as high as her chin before if refused to budge.

An invisible force held the locket in place. No matter the aliens strength, Starfire could not remove the jewelry. 

“It’s desperate,” Raven had speculated. “It has found a conduit to speak through--without us it’ll just be a bulky, broken locket.”

“I'm liking this less and less,” Robin grumbled, staring daggers at the necklace. 

_ Typical,  _ Raven thought to herself. 

“It is fine, friend Robin. If this being has been here this whole time, it has yet to cause me any harm. It even protected me from Johnny Rancid. I trust Raven’s judgment,” Starfire let the necklace fall back onto her chest, glancing over at the empath. “If you are right about the  _ ghost _ stuck inside the locket, then we should help it.”

Starfire turned a heavy gaze toward the Titan leader. 

“That is what we do, is it not? We help when someone is in trouble.” 

Heat spread across Robin's cheeks. 

“Yeah, okay. I get it. We’ll help it.” 

Starfire’s smile beamed at the Boy Wonder in reward. Raven wondered if Robin realized how far gone he was for the alien princess, rolling her eyes.

“I have been working on a ritual, something that might help us speak with the spirit more articulately.”

“Like a quija board?” Beastboy prodded. “I dunno dude, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that’s a terrible idea.”

Cyborg raised his hand in exaggeration. “I second that! I ain’t dying to some wall scuttling she-demon.”

“ _ Not  _ a quija board,” Raven snapped. “I know  _ real  _ magic.”

“How does it work?” Robin cut it.

Raven, still chaffed by the interrogation earlier, simply deadpanned: “Magic.”

The empath derived a small thrill from Robin’s reddening face.

“I’ll grab my supplies from my room,” Raven said, turning to leave. “I will meet you up stairs.”

_ Testy,  _ Raven thought to herself. But she was tired, and the being inside Starfire’s necklace was trying her patience. She figured she was allowed to be a little rude.

 

 

 

"I am uncertain, friend Raven,” Starfire said from within a salt circle. She stood in the middle, facing a body length mirror. Her expression was one perplexed. “How will this help the ghost inside the locket?”

“You’re acting as a medium,” Raven answered, reaching into a small pouch and pulling out a hand full of what appeared to be dried plant matter. She sprinkled it around Starfire, being careful to keep it contained within the ring of salt. “Well, you and the mirror are. It’ll speak with your voice, but we might be able to see it’s reflection as well.”

“Are you sure this is safe, Raven?” Robin asked for the fiftieth time. 

“I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise,” Raven snapped. 

“It is okay, friend Robin.” 

The Titan leader only grunted in response. 

Candles were lit next, scattered without reason throughout the room. Incense scented the room--white smoke in lazy curls. It was all very much like a B rated horror film, or so Beast Boy announced.

This time it was Raven's turn to growl. 

“Just don't touch anything. And no matter what, no one break the salt circle. No one goes in or out unless I say so.” 

Raven spoke this with gravity. She should have known better than to think they would listen; to think Robin could control himself with his alien princess within the salt ring...

 

 

 


End file.
